


The Passing of Master Samwise, Last of the Ring-bearers

by MishaMagdalene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drabble-ish?, Gen, Going into the West, Grief, I got an A in the class for this paper so yay for that, Missing Scene, Mourning, Post-Canon, Red Book of Westmarch, an appendix to the appendices, hungover Sam is hungover, little Elanor trolling Aragorn is my favorite thing of ever, ring-bearer angst, shut up I'm not crying YOU'RE crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 11:47:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17022039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MishaMagdalene/pseuds/MishaMagdalene
Summary: After the War of the Ring, after his master and best friend sailed from the Grey Havens, Sam's story still went on. There was love and family, there was position and respect, there were gardens and friends and all the simple joys of life.Life moves on, though, as it does for all east of the Undying Lands. With the death of Sam's beloved wife Rosie, the ties holding him to Middle-earth have grown faint. The Road is calling, and the Sea beyond it. Before he sets out, though, he has one last letter to write...





	The Passing of Master Samwise, Last of the Ring-bearers

**Author's Note:**

> I took a Science Fiction and Fantasy English-lit class at Sacramento City College in 2007, and my final act in that class was turning in my second and final paper, which accounted for roughly half of my grade. (It was less a class and more a weekly book club for credit.) My first paper was a straight-up academic essay, which I believe was titled, "Free Will and Fatalism in Shelley's _Frankenstein_ and Burgess' _A Clockwork Orange_ ," or somedamnsillything. This time, however, we were given the option of writing either an academic paper or a creative effort based on one of the books we'd read in the second half of the semester.
> 
> Guess which one I chose?
> 
> I wrote it because the idea of writing fanfic for academic credit tickled me, because I'm a terrible geekboi fan of the author whose work (and writing style) I attempted to emulate, and because... well, because it's a part of the story I always wanted to know, and which he didn't write, except as a passing mention in an appendix.
> 
> So, here's my Tolkien pastiche, written out of both a genuine love for his books and a genuine desire to get a good grade in my class. I'm posting this because I figure a few of you might find it amusing, or interesting, or something. Comments, questions, feedback and the like are welcome, if you feel like submitting them.
> 
> And so...

THE PASSING OF MASTER SAMWISE, LAST OF THE RING-BEARERS  
Being the final letter of Samwise Gamgee to his daughter, Elanor;  
added to the Red Book of Westmarch,  
with an Introduction by Elanor Fairbairn of the Tower Hills,  
in the 80th year of the Fourth Age of Middle-earth.

  
It is with some trepidation that I set my hand to this task, that of prefacing this brief addition to the work which has come to be known as the Red Book of Westmarch. The trepidation I feel is due, at least in some part, to the intimate and personal nature of the addition. Most of the works which have come to be included in the Red Book fall into two categories: records of events which shaped the world in which we live, and stories of those events as seen by the people who lived through them. The first we may call 'legends,' while the latter may be termed 'memoirs.' Both are, to one extent or another, kinds of history. What follows is neither; it is instead a letter, written to me by my father, shortly before he left us.  
  
This is pertinent to the rest of the Red Book because my father was, of course, Samwise Gamgee, the faithful companion and friend of Frodo Baggins, whose memoir (along with his uncle, Bilbo Baggins) _The Downfall of the Lord of the Rings and the Return of the King_ is the primary written history we have concerning the unmaking of the One Ring and the liberation of all the peoples of Middle-earth. There is, however, another reason, as yet untold, why this letter has come to be included among the histories, the legends and memoirs which make up this book.  
  
It is a matter of history that, some time after the destruction of the One Ring in the year 3019 of the Third Age, Frodo and Samwise returned to the Shire, alongside their companions Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, whereupon they ousted the wizard Saruman and his Orcs and restored order to the Shire. It is likewise a matter of history that two years later, in the last year of the Third Age, Frodo and Bilbo Baggins journeyed to the Grey Havens, whereupon they set forth across the Sea on a boat made for them by the Elven mariner Círdan the Shipwright. Samwise, Meriadoc and Peregrin accompanied them to the Grey Havens and saw them fade into the West, then returned home to take up their lives again in our quiet little green country far removed from the great doings and goings-on of faraway lands.  
  
Still, though, these three Hobbits touched and were touched by greatness. They each passed through fire and shadow, through grief and loss and joy, and small though they might have been, their hands helped to shape the world in which we now live. Such deeds and events leave a mark on those who pass through them—be they Elves, Dwarves, Men or even Hobbits—and such marks do not fade. They may not be visible to the careless eye, but those whose vision is keen enough to see beneath the surface know, in an instant.  
  
On the surface, my father was as stolid, as ordinary a Hobbit as one could hope to meet. He was Mayor of the Shire for nigh on fifty years, but in his heart he was a gardener, a Hobbit of the land, and as common and homely as a plate of potatoes and a mug of beer. He was possessed of a common sense sometimes lacking in his fellows, but he was not one of the Wise, nor was he gifted with scholarly ambitions. He was a simple Hobbit, with simple tastes and simple aspirations: a garden of his own, a smiling wife and a house full of laughing children, and an occasional walk in the hills around Hobbiton (with a stop at the Green Dragon for a beer and a bit of talk). He was also a kind and gentle Hobbit, one who loved his wife and children with a ferocity one can only really see in those who know just how precious life is, and how easily lost.  
  
And in that, one can see the mark left on my father by his experiences in the War of the Ring. As a girl, I spent many hours enrapt in his stories about 'what we did in the War,' thrilled by his tales of adventure and danger, marvelling at the wonders and beauties he described (albeit in his often simple language). It was only as I grew older that I began to hear the story beneath his stories, and to see how my father's simple bedtime stories were part of a much greater tapestry of story, history and legend in which we were all enmeshed. In all of them, I came to see the depth of his love for his friends: Meriadoc and Pippin, the white wizard Gandalf, the Elf Legolas and the Dwarf Gimli, and the ranger Aragorn, known to us now as King Elessar.  
  
(In fact, I recall the very moment in which I truly realised, for the first time, that the scruffy and disreputable-seeming Ranger of my father's stories was none other than King Elessar himself. It was in the year 1436 in the Shire-reckoning, when King Elessar and Queen Arwen came to stay for a time among us, near Lake Evendim. He was a tall Man, with dark hair and a kindly face, clad all in his kingly raiment, and when I was introduced to him, I blurted out, 'You can't truly be Strider!' Elessar looked at me, startled, then burst with laughter which rang to the hills. My father blushed beet-red and tried to shush me, but Elessar stayed him, saying, 'No, Sam, I pray you, let her speak her mind always. Besides, it is both pleasing and humbling to know that King Elessar is still "Stick-at-Naught Strider" to some.')  
  
Dearest to his heart, however, was the Hobbit my father referred to for the rest of his days as 'Mr. Frodo.' The depth of his love for Frodo Baggins matched that of his love for my mother, though forged of a different metal. Also, it was tinged with a certain sadness, one which I only came to understand later in life, as I read and re-read the Red Book, first as a simple reading primer and later as a diversion, a hobby, and finally as something of a vocation. Frodo Baggins was my father's comrade in the War, his closest friend, and his master. Even after my father became Mayor, even after all the honours and accolades of Middle-earth were laid upon his name, in his heart he was still just Sam, the gardener at Bag End, who looked after things for Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo. His love for Frodo took him out of the Shire and across Middle-earth, through Elven forests and into the depths of Moria, and even into the heart of the Land of Shadow, and indeed, it was his love for Frodo that helped bring the War of the Ring to an end.  
  
That he and his dearest friend should travel so far and endure such hardships, only in the end to be parted, troubled him greatly. He did not often show it, nor ever speak of it, but he carried that loss within him for the rest of his days. His solace in that loss, more than his garden or his children, came from his beloved wife, Rose Gamgee. It was she who eased his grief and helped him come to terms with life after the War. Her passing, in S.R. 1482, was the second great loss of his life, and which led to this letter, written and given to me shortly before my father disappeared, never to be seen again in Middle-earth.  
  
Finally, to my reason for placing this letter among the writings of the Wise and the deeds of the Hobbits: those who have read the histories written by Bilbo and Frodo Baggins will know that both of them were 'Ring-bearers'; that is, they bore the One Ring for an extended time. What readers may have missed, however, is that Samwise Gamgee was also a Ring-bearer, albeit for a much shorter time than either Bilbo or Frodo. Nevertheless, as a Ring-bearer and as one of those who took the One Ring to its doom, it seems appropriate to include this letter as a sort of epilogue to the works which precede it, and to answer the question of where my father went after disappearing from the Shire in S.R. 1482. Of course, the notion that the fate of Samwise Gamgee has debated among scholars in the white-walled towers of Minas Tirith would no doubt be deeply amusing to him... but here, at last, we may lay the arguments to rest.  
  
Now, having gone on at much greater length than the letter in question, I will close this introduction and commend you to the text itself.  
  


· · ·

Bag End, Hobbiton, The Shire, Eriador  
20th September 1482 S.R.  
  
My darling daughter Elanor,  
  
It is late now, here in Bag End, and I have burned many candles trying to begin this letter while the Moon dances Her way across the night sky. Five attempts have I made, then pitched into the fire, before starting this one, which I hope will be my last. If my words are therefore ill-chosen or badly-spelt, I beg your pardon, and ask that you overlook the maunderings of an old Hobbit aching with old pains and musing over old wounds.  
  
It may be that I find myself fixing on the past because the present is too painful to bear. Over two months now since my Rosie left us, and I still reach for her in the mornings, or call to her from the garden, only to realise and remember that she's not there. Some nights, the grief has been more than I can bear, and I've had a little more of Merry's brandywine than is good for me; certainly, my head hasn't appreciated it.  
  
I know that you miss her as well, my dear heart, and I would not add to your grief, but there are things which need to be said, and if I were to wait until we're both ready to talk about them, I should never begin at all. Instead, I shall simply write them down, then pass this on to you when I see you in two days' time. You will read this letter after I have gone; I shall give it to you along with Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo's book, and I can only hope that together they will explain all those things I would not have the heart or wit to say.  
  
You never knew Mr. Frodo, of course. He sailed into the West, along with Mr. Bilbo and Gandalf, not long after you were born. When you were born, he told me, 'Sam, she's beautiful. I couldn't wish for you more happiness than you've found now.' He smiled as he said it, but I saw in his eyes a sort of sadness and relief mixed together with his joy. Positively Elven, it seemed to me, but I didn't say so. It was not long after that he left us, and I've thought on that day ever since. He said to me, when he'd made up his mind to go, 'You cannot always be torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do.'  
  
And he was right. I let him go, and went about the business of being a husband and a father as best I could. To my very great surprise indeed, I found that happiness Mr. Frodo wished for me, and I am content. My children are good, solid Hobbits with more sense than might've been credited to Gamgees, and our land is truly whole and well under the gentle hand of the King. (Who I still cannot help but think of as 'Strider,' even now!) It has been a good life, Elanor, filled with family and friends and simple joys, for which I am more grateful than I can say.  
  
Now, though, I feel that the brightest moments have passed. The loss of your mother is a blow to me, one from which I cannot recover in this life, and I feel her absence as keenly in this moment as I did the day she died. My heart has broken this completely only once before, when Mr. Frodo went over the Sea, and then I had your mother to come home to. She comforted me in her way, and over time I was able to be that 'one and whole' Hobbit Mr. Frodo said I needed to be. She healed me, I mean to say, and I loved her all the more for that.  
  
There is no one to heal my heart now, Elanor, and the weight of the years is pressing upon me as it never did while my Rosie was still with us. My love for you and for all our children and grandchildren is undimmed, but you have your own lives and loves to watch for, and I would not burden you with the chore of comforting an old, broken-hearted Hobbit longing for the past.  
  
I would not tell you all of this but for a dream I had, two days ago. It seems a strange thing to say, but it's true nevertheless. I had been reading the Book in Mr. Bilbo's old office, and (as often happens these days) I fell to napping in the Sun. No sooner did I drift to sleep than I found myself standing at the Grey Havens, just as I had when I saw Mr. Frodo off, and there was Círdan himself standing with me. We were looking out at a beautiful grey boat, one with silken sails of white and silver, and he said to me, 'Here is our ship, Master Samwise: the last work of Círdan the Shipwright, for we shall have no need of such in the Undying Lands. When you are ready, come to me and we shall make sail for the West. Until then, I shall await you.' Then he placed his hand on my shoulder and smiled, and I woke up with a start.  
  
I've thought a lot about that dream ever since, Elanor, and I can't see no reason to make him wait any longer. He's been here in Middle-earth longer than just about anybody, and I suppose he's ready to go home now. And, strange though it seems, so am I. I feel hollowed-out and lost, and Bag End, Hobbiton, even the Shire, they just aren't 'home' anymore. Not without my Rosie, not without Mr. Frodo.  
  
I'm too old for adventures now, or so the gaffers in Bywater would have me believe, but I hear the songs of sea-birds in the air, the wind is crisp and clean, and my feet want to walk the Shire one last time before the end. My pony is already packed, and while my heart is heavy, I can't help but whistle a little tune as I make ready for one last adventure. I feel the call of the Sea, as Legolas would say, and I think it's time for me to go meet it.  
  
The Road truly does go ever on and on, my dearest daughter, just like the song says.  
  
My love to you and your brothers and sisters, and to your children and their children, now and in all the days to come.  
  
Your father,  
  
Sam Gamgee  
  


THE END


End file.
